


deep in ocean sunk the lamp of light

by infiniteGem



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik is a Shark, M/M, Mermaids, Merman!Erik, My First Work in This Fandom, My own spin on merpeople, Other, Sea Magic, Sea Spirit, Work In Progress, almost, mermaid!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteGem/pseuds/infiniteGem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merpeople!AU</p><p>Charles loves the sea, he's grown up in it and pondered its depths. But the secrets those depths hide he loves more, and Erik, his best friend - his merfriend - he loves most.</p><p>(a practice WIP that is ever changing and evolving)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Summer

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from 'The Iliad' which is a poem that just has to be read, no matter what, despite it's greater insignificance to this story!  
> So this is my first work on AO3, first ever Cherik, first ever for the Marvel fandom but not my first ever fanfiction. Taking a break from writing has been lovely, but when a plot-bunny bites, it really sinks it's teeth in.
> 
> This is still a WIP and completely a first draft, to be fixed and perfected at a later date. There may be irregular updates, because I am on holiday and when I'm back from it, I'm starting university, so please be patient with me, and I'll try my hardest to do best by you all. Constructive criticism will be welcomed with open arms - like I said, it's been a while.

_Five years have passed; five summers, with the length_  
 _Of five long winters! and again I hear_  
 _These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs_  
 _With a soft inland murmur._  
  
– William Wordsworth

* * *

 

Charles loved summer.

He was pretty partial to the other seasons too, but summer meant warmth, it meant long lazy days in the garden, going to summer school and learning new skills, an excuse for shorts, new books, water fights, parks full to the brim.

It meant his father was less busy and his mother was more inclined to spend time with them. It meant leaving cold and downcast England behind for sunnier coasts where he could spend his days splashing in the water with this father while his mother worked on her tan.

He was five, he was splashing in the shallows, his sand-castle long demolished by gusting winds and cruel, creeping waves, when his father crouched down beside him and asked him, "Don't you want to swim?"

It was his way of teasing and goading Charles into doing what he said ("Don't you want to finish your homework and make your teachers proud?" "Don't you want to grow taller than me?" "Don't you want to have some fun?") and it never failed.

So as it happened, his father got the two of them matching fins and facemasks and showed Charles the wonders of the world under the sea.

* * *

When he was five they were in the tropical corals of the Maldives, almost breathing in the salty water in his wonder.

When he was six, it was the clear, blanket-smooth waters of the Dead Sea in Fethiye, the mountains embedded with ancient tombs and the seabed littered with remnants of a lost city.

When he was seven, it was the south of France and it was a race to see who would find the best seashells (his dad found the best but Charles got the most so, by their joint logic, of course Charles won.)

The sea was weightless and endless and Charles, in his childish wonder, pondered about its secrets.

His bookshelves were filled with any books he could find about the sea and ocean (he also pilfered some encyclopaedias from his father's library just to really show visitors he knew what he was talking about as he spewed memorised facts and spun passionate tales about the crustaceans he saw). He watched every documentary about the sea and ocean, the wizened voice of David Attenborough drawing him in and searing the knowledge into his brain.

He was alone most of the time, the rush of maids background noise to the gurgling melodies of the underwater universe shining through his television; and Charles loved it most when his father joined him, adding tid-bits of information during instrumentals and camera pans of the expanse of the deep blue world.

When Charles was eight, when all their bags were packed and Charles was giddy and chock-full of research on the marine life of the individual Greek islands, his father died. And it was a twisted cruel joke of fate that the sun giddily bore down on Charles on the day of the funeral, and Charles could smell the salt of the sea as they lowered the coffin into the ground

(it probably never occurred to him that it was the tears streaming silently down his face.)

* * *

 

The summer lost its charm and passed in a sour blur and it was time for school (and Charles yearned for the comforts of his school friends, playing football in the playground, Miss Roanheart's proud smile,) when his mother moved them to New York.

Charles felt lonelier than ever; the Westchester estate was grander by far compared to their London townhouse and Charles couldn't help but feel that his mother wanted to lose him in the maze of a house, if not just let the land and forest around it swallow him up. School was no longer a comfort when the children mocked his accent and the teachers insisted he sing the anthem despite his ‘unfortunate’ dual citizenship.

So Charles kept to himself, buried in his father's encyclopedias, words too long and complicated to really understand, his snorkelling gear gathering dust in the back of his wardrobe.

* * *

 

It was in that old, chasm of a house when Charles began to hear whispers of voices. Murmurs of ghosts.

It was there that Charles learnt what it was like to be alone.

* * *

 

It wasn't until he was nine that Charles wished he had paid more attention to what was happening. When his mother's drinking had dwindled to two bottles of scotch a week in the trash rather than eight, when she left the house only to be back the next morning, when she brought a man to their house and bed she had shared with his father once upon a time, without him noticing.

(The voices were always louder when there were more people in the house. Not that Charles noticed, too busy trying to find some _quiet_.)

The very man stood before him now in the foyer, his mother standing beside him and his children when she should be beside him - "This is Kurt Marko, he's going to live with us from now on. And his kids can be your friends. Be a dear, Charles."

Charles winces at the desperation ( _dontbeweirddontruinthisdontbeyou)_ and greets the man.

Kurt Marko looked in every way an average man - average height, looks, intelligence, career, finance and family. He had lost his wife to the birth of his daughter and had been a single - loving, caring, doting - father ever since. Everything about the situation was average.

But the voices screamed, dragging down the back of his mind, oily, repelling. He would not, he thought, like Kurt Marko.

 ("Be a dear, Charles.")

As Charles led the children on a tour around the estate, he observed his new ‘play-mates’. Raven was a quiet girl, younger than him by four years and so sweet were her reddish-blonde curls and golden eyes that Charles was half convinced she had been plucked from the illustrations in his fairytale books. So frail that Charles wondered whether the draughty corridors of the estate would be okay for her to play in.

It was a wonder at all how she was related to Cain, who stamped through the estate during their visit, roared at the staff, already fancying himself the master. The boy’s copper blonde hair was cropped short and he was of a stocky-build and Charles couldn’t help seeing him as a little (toy, plaything, plastic) soldier – the bad kind, not the honourable kind they write stories about, mind. He jeered at Charles, pulling his books out and throwing them over his shoulder without a care for the worlds within them.

("Be a  _dear_ , Charles.")

When his fingers brushed his father’s tomes, Charles held a breath, but Cain was distracted by Raven’s hesitant entrance into Charles’ room, her body language nervous, but her eyes curious. He turned on her immediately, spitting foul words he’d obviously swallowed until then and Charles felt disgusted and enraged as he watched the boy tower over his sister.

("a  _deer_ , Charles.")

Just as he’d about to intervene (what had she done to deserve such hostility, this story-book girl) Kurt had called his children and Cain’s terrible sneer left his face and Raven’s face shuttered, hiding all the fear painted across her face moments before.

He shuddered to think that there would be more of this to come; they hadn't even moved in yet. That waited until after the wedding, as propriety dictated, so Charles didn't see much of them till the wedding day.

* * *

 

Charles persuaded the staff to prepare Raven's room beside his and helped them in designing it.

If they were going to be family, it was only right he help.

(He couldn’t forget the way she flinched at Cain's laughing and bowed her head at Kurt's barks as he arranged the toys his mother had the help buy around her bed.)

* * *

 

They were married that summer.

The wedding took place too close to the anniversary of his father's death than Charles was comfortable, so when he and Cain followed Raven down the aisle, crushing the white petals Raven let flutter between her fingers beneath their feet, when Cain kept nudging Charles to lose his footing, when the official asked for any objections (yes,  _yes_ , god  **yes** ), Charles was silent and let the day drift over him like a misty day in England.

Where his father lay, alone, and too far for Charles to visit.

* * *

 

The children joined the newly married couple on their honeymoon; a private beach house in [Miami’s Gables Estates](http://www.305homes.com/info/property/residential/A1872934/), that they rented - but Kurt loved so much he later convinced Sharon to buy - just steps away from the rippling surface of the twinkling blue sea.

Charles resented how happily Cain crowed as he ran across the lawn and jumped off the pier into the blue. Sharon lay on her lounge chair, catching much needed sun while Kurt was shouting at a poor sod on the other side of his phone. In his hands, Charles clenched the new fins and facemask that Kurt had bought when his mother complained about the old ones; they were bright red - "a young boy's colour," Kurt assured - with yellow lightning strikes printed on the shoes, the facemask covering half his face and sitting loose on his nose. The old one lay at the bottom of his beach bag, beneath his towel and sand-spread, hidden from the hands of the people attempting to wipe all traces of his father away.

Charles sighed as Kurt caught his shuffling figure still near the porch, and muting the microphone, he called out, "Charlie, my boy, come over, the water is great! Cain's gone in without you!"  
  
Charles bristled, several things grating at his nerves: firstly, his name was  _most definitely not_  Charlie, secondly, he was not  _his_  boy, and thirdly, the sea could have been bubbling  _acid_  and Kurt wouldn't have known. And the voices, the voices battered against the back of his eyes _putriduglygreen_ and soured his mood. The retort was like a geyser ready to erupt from his mouth, but Charles took a deep breath and headed to the beach.

This was his family now.

Walking past his mother, he pointedly ignored the way Kurt leaned down to plant a kiss on her lips (Charles struggled to remember if she'd giggled like that with his father) and stepped up to one of the two private piers. One was for lounging and diving off on and the other for the yacht waiting at the end; the latter was also the one without Cain, and so was the only one Charles would consent to go on.

At the end, hidden in the shadow of the ostentatious white yacht, sat Raven, her legs dangling over the edge, swimming bands on her arms and tube around her waist, looking rather like a skirt, and her hair in a high ponytail.  
  
Raven, who was alone despite having a father and older brother.  
  
Two, Charles reminded himself, she now had  _two_  older brothers. Breathing in – and hoping he was absorbing the world’s supply of all the brotherly affection he’d never had – he approached her and sat beside her. They hadn't talked at all during the wedding and barely at all during their initial introduction, so this was important, the start of a new friendship, the forming of an unbreakable sibling bond - that meant the words he chose next would be utterly life changing.

"A group of jelly fish is called a smack."

Raven reflected his embarrassment, her face scrunching up like she'd smelled something foul. "What?" Charles flushed, feeling the sickening red heat burning his ears down to his neck, and he couldn't help the stammering attempt at correcting the awful, awful -

"It's - just, I – I was reading about marine life in Miami – well, fish are so fascinating and, uh, jelly fish are – well, I thought, seeing as you're sitting with their habitat under your feet.”

"I'm sitting here because I can't swim."

That threw Charles off, Charles to whom swimming had become a second nature, who loved the feel of treading through water as much as feeling the wind on his face as he ran, who's first memory was learning how to swim, the steady and strong hands guiding him – “I really don’t want to if there are jellies in there,” Raven had continued, but Charles was too far gone.

"I'll teach you!" He said excitedly, because this was something he could do something they could share. But Raven looked apprehensive, eyes cast worriedly over the water, dark in the shadow. Charles' smile faltered a little, "don't you trust me?"

"Why would you help me?" She asked, looking smaller than she was, her tone older than she seemed. Charles shrugged, that was an easy question, "Because swimming is  _groovy_!" Raven looked at him fully then, her mouth agape, eyes still suspicious. "You're not... you don't hate me?" Charles was really confused now, this was definitely not going the way he'd planned. He ran his hand through his hair and pushed at his temple, a terrible habit he’d picked up, "Why would I hate you?"

"Because,” she frowned, and Charles wanted to press a finger to kneed away the furrow between her brows; she was too young to justify hatred, “because my dad took your dad's place, and you've never had siblings, and you have to share your mom and house and you've never had to do that before - "

"That house is too big for just two people. In fact it was quite... lonely.” He smiled at her, cutting her off, because loneliness was one thing he recognised better than anything else, “You were alone, like me.”  
  
Raven’s lips quivered, pulling down, and Charles panicked – crying was definitely not progress - and he quickly tried to rectify any crying.  
  
“But you're my family now and family should be together. I can't have you sitting here alone,  _especially_  thinking things like that."

"In fact, you never have to be alone again."

That took away the cloudy expression from her face and something knotted inside of Charles, because looking at her hopeful eyes and wind-crested hair, Charles knew that yellow ( _honey, golden, sunny_ ) would forever be his colour for Raven.

"...Cain too?"

They both looked across as Cain canon-balled into the water, then surfaced screaming about the cold. They winced. "Oh sure, best of buddies," Charles dead-panned.

There was a split second of staring wide-eyed at each other, before they both burst into laughter, though the idea wasn't a bad one, if improbable with Cain being... Cain.

Raven stood up then, hands squeezing the swim-tube and face more open than he’d ever seen. Her smile was blinding and beautiful in its childishness and innocence that Charles couldn’t help but smile back. “Didn't you want to swim?” She asked, and suddenly, instead of golden eyes, he saw his own blue, and brown swept hair and a knowing smile.

And Charles emptied his swimming bag, until his old fins and goggles fell atop the pile, and showed his new sister the world under the sea.

* * *

 

(The house was less empty that year, the grounds less daunting once explored and exploited in sport and games.

School was still horrid, more so when Cain joined, but he had Raven to come home to, to recite lessons to and teach new games they'd learnt. Raven absorbed it all like a sponge, because this was all new for her, and she'd found what she hadn't had and she wasn't about to miss a single second of it.

They made a game of their torment from Cain and Kurt - they became their 'it', the 'seeker' in hide and seek; they hid and avoided and mimed stories to pass the time while Cain stomped past or made faces at each other while ignoring Kurt's many lectures.

Life became life again, like the mist had lifted and the sour taste turned to honey and it was because he had found his family in Raven, and he was sure, somewhere, his father would be glad he wasn't alone. They weren't alone.)

* * *

 

And it was the summer of his tenth year that Charles first met Erik.

 


	2. In My Time of Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the bookmarks, I am terribly sorry for how long this took. University has swept me away quite literally, and living in a Victorian castle isn't conducive to writing about a story set on the Miami beach-front.
> 
> But the first draft of the work is done now and updates should be more regular soon. The chapter title is from a Led Zeppelin song, but mostly it's from an episode of Supernatural, both of which I recommend. Seriously the opening to that song...
> 
> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, happy holidays still to those who don't. May all the New Year bring happiness, success, good health and luck to you all!

_“I went down to the river,_   
_I set down on the bank._   
_I tried to think but couldn't,_   
_So I jumped in and sank.”_

-Langston Hughes

* * *

 

It wasn’t a meeting per say.

When Charles _found_ Erik (or technically when Erik found Charles) for the first time, he hadn’t been looking to find a friend. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time (or right place at the right time?)

As it happened, so was Erik.

Blind fate. Unknown fingers tying two random strings amidst a coiled yarn. Chance.

Because you find everything when you least expect it, and Charles’ everything would be Erik.

* * *

 

Raven found Charles in the kitchen, the TV was on, but Charles was distracted by the encyclopaedia Raven (well, Mrs Robins went and got it but it still counts) had gotten him for his birthday.

It was special edition because Mrs Robins said tenth birthdays were special.

And Charles deserved special.

“— _Erin Delagedo, for NBC Miami, hope you’re all having a good day so far. As you can see behind me--”_

But that didn’t exempt him from her morning tickles.

She snuck around the kitchen island, the TV drowning out her footsteps, though she was getting better at being quiet. She had to be, Charles seemed to always know she was there. But that only made this more fun.

_“-- you’re definitely going to want to grab those umbrellas if you are stepping outside this afternoon. We are seeing a few showers and thunderstorm popping up now just off-shore in the Gulf of Mexico –”_

She wasn’t far now, the dining table was behind the counter she used for cover. He was completely engrossed, she could tell: his fingers stroked the corner of the next page, as if he’d forgotten he’d been turning it, his chin rested on his other hand, his cereal had gotten soggy and he was swinging his legs – probably in tempo with his reading.

She’d know, he’d read to her often enough.

Raven bit her lip to stifle her giggle, bubbling up through her excitement of finally scaring him.

_“— A dry sunny morning but remember, these storms continue to move mainly to the east, so it’s a good idea to stay indoors and away from the shore – ”_

Her fingers were inches from digging into his waist (he was unbelievably ticklish on his sides) when Charles spun around and yelled, “Boo!” Raven screamed in delight as he caught her fingers, jumping off his seat and trying to tickle her.

“Got you again!”

“You were looking!”

“You’re just really loud, Ray.”

She pouted, darting away from his fingers. She was quicker than he was and no way was he gonna tickle her if she couldn’t get him.

_“—after midday. As winds pick up, the storm clouds will move over Miccosukee, to Sweetwater to Coral Gables. From Key Biscayne it’ll move out east –”_

“No I wasn’t. I was _super_ quiet.”

His expression shifted from playful to bewildered when she said that, and suddenly he looked like he was far away. It happened sometimes and it could get annoying, like he was falling asleep with his eyes open, which was _creepy_. Sometimes she had to _shake_ him to wake him up. Raven was about to call his name when Cain stomped into the kitchen.

Now _that_ was loud, and it startled Charles back to himself.

“Hey Ugly, hey Mouse,” And immediately their good mood soured. Raven bowed her head, her hair effectively hiding her face. Charles’ hand reached for hers and squeezed. “Good morning, Cain.”

The blonde boy grunted in response, looking around, “Where’s the help?” He barked and Raven hoped they were far away, she hated seeing Mrs Robins following Cain’s stupid orders. Charles answered, so mechanically that Raven couldn’t help but stare.

“Out on the dock, preparing the yacht, guests are coming, everything must be perfect,” He took in a shaky breath and Raven squeezed his hand as he took a step back as if he were falling back into his body. He breathed hard as if he'd just ran (Charles liked running, never more than swimming though) but only Raven seemed to notice, Cain shook his head – “Know-it-all.” – before heading for the fridge.

“Charles?” She whispered, too afraid to talk loudly. It wasn’t as if this was anything new; Charles always knew things like this, Charles was really smart. But his big brain mean that Charles also got painful headaches and Raven would hug him and stroke his head until he felt better (Mrs Robins too, but Charles liked her hugs the best). This time was different though, he looked sick and Raven saw people fainting in that show on TV the other day, and the way Charles had paled and tipped back looked _so much_ like it.

“I’m fine. I’m not going to… to _faint_? Really, Raven.” He admonished, but his hand ran through her hair the way it did when he comforted her.

Raven bit her lip at his tired smile, of course he wouldn’t faint, this was Charles who always blew away her worries, she was so silly to worry out loud in her fear, she leaned into his hand and said, “You looked like it!”

He was still breathing weirdly and his smile shook but his eyes had the happy glint she loved so much, “Never mind that: looks like we better get ready for a swim.”

And they snuck out the kitchen before Cain could spoil the rest of their morning.

_“—Tomorrow highs will reach 90 and it’s a dry spell for most the weekend. Stay safe and stay dry.”_

* * *

 

Turns out Cain _could_ spoil more of their day.

Charles fidgeted in his seat, his clothes pulling at his swimming trucks which felt like a soft murmur across his skin, dry water, reminding him of what he was missing.

As if Cain’s messy splashing wasn’t maddening enough. Charles felt like a fish stranded on deck, beneath the heat of the sun.

He was stuck sitting beside Kurt while he and his _friends_ talked raucously, about the most _pointless things_ that it was grating on Charles’ mind that he had to sit there and listen to it: at one point they were _debating_ about _golfing positions_ and Charles wanted to cry.

(Charles knew – he wasn’t sure how – they were working on finding clean nuclear energy, Charles’ father had proposed it as a project to Howard Stark. Now that Kurt had taken over Xavier Corp. he had also taken over the project that would be the first that Stark Industries collaborated with. These men were the top in their respective fields and working on something _life changing_ and now the topic had turned to _socks_.)

But Charles was the trophy son, the one to show off, so Cain was allowed his freedom while Charles - Charles was stuck in Kurt’s clutches. He didn’t want to be _here_ , helping in this parody of snake charming, be the flute, Raven the sweet tune, under Kurt’s fumbling fingers and Sharon’s breath.

He wanted to be _there_ : they had taken the yacht through the tour paths of Biscayne Bay to the outskirts of Elliott Key (the National Park seemed to be closed off), the colourful corals he _knew_ would be glittering beneath the surface, shipwrecks making up an artificial reef that he’d read about that had tickled his childhood archaeology fantasy – only _better_ because it was _underwater_.

Charles wondered at the absence of tourist boat tours on the Key as they pointed towards the open water and cut the engines. Perhaps the season hadn’t started yet. If no one else where there, why had _they_ bothered, when all they were doing was _nothing?!_

His frustration felt like it was clogging his lungs and he could scarcely _breathe_ , he needed out, he needed to be in the water and it wasn’t helping that he was bored enough that his mind would wander and the voices would creep in.

There was nowhere to hide on the yacht, no far away room to hanker down in until they settled.

The voices whispered things Charles didn’t want to know: that Howard Stark and Nathaniel Richard’s both worked for an organisation ( _SHIELDSHIELDSHIELD_ ) but were pretending to be new friends. He didn’t want to know about Brian Banner’s simmering need for _some real fucking whiskey, proves what a sissy Marko is serving champagne like it’s God’s piss in a bottle._ The voices showed him images, ones his eyes hadn’t seen but were looking at like it was happening, his wife Rebecca (wait, not _his_ wife, a stranger,) trying to escape with the little beast _where the fuck does she think_ –

– _she’s going? Raven, dear?_

Charles seemed to hover, blearily, _Raven_ , that’s not strange, he knows that name, that name means _yellow, summer sun, sun in her hair, hair over golden eyes, blinking,_ blinking –

Right in front of him.

“-right Charles?”

He blinked right back at his sister, who was almost nose to nose with him, before she turned to Kurt. “Daddy, he looks sick!” And suddenly Charles was surrounded, a head on his hair, on on his forehead, one pulling his chin up. The touching brought more images, a lot of them his own pasty face.

“Must be from being under the sun so long – ”

“Best get him inside – ”

“Wet his head a little – “

“I’ll do it!”

“Little angel you have there, Marko, going to be a doctor one day, eh?”

But Charles didn’t hear what he knew would be a dismissal of Raven (though the voices hissed _killerkillershetookmywife_ ) as he found himself heading down into the cabin, with Raven’s hand securely in his.

When they fell onto the sofa, they curled into each other, Charles’ head on Raven’s belly, arms around his torso and their legs locked into each other’s where they curled up. Siblings, not by blood, but curled up as if they had previously resided in one womb.

(They wouldn’t know they would continue to do it for years, not just for Charles’ headaches, but for Raven’s fear too.)

They breathed, in and out, and Charles could swear he heard his own voice reading, calmly and sweetly, the book he’d read to Raven before she’d slept the night before. A little time passed, they stayed cocooned, until he felt collected again, mind no longer wandering from boredom.

Because Raven had a twinkle in her eye, and it meant that fun often followed.

“Sharon is sunbathing on the roof, we can get out from the back deck.” They jumped into action, grabbing their snorkelling kits and tearing off their clothes. Raven was giddy with mirth and doubled over laughing when Charles tripped over his suit trousers which had tangled stubbornly and refused to come off.

Charles has no idea how they weren’t caught – their sneaky dive off the yacht was preluded by giggles and concluded with a loud _splash!_

But the water welcomed him with cool arms and it was all Charles could do not to cry with relief.

* * *

 

Charles would look back on the day he met Erik a lot.

Look for little clues, pointers, _signs_. He wondered if the way the surface of the sea rippled with the colour of the underbelly of clouds was a warning. Or the itch he’d had on his nose, their superstitious Mrs Robins said meant something bad was going to happen.

He wondered whether the hatefully, deceivingly, perfect sun, covering for the approaching storm was a living metaphor he had missed.

A foreshadow overshadowed by his joy that he would only shine a light on years later, when he had nothing left and nothing to do but look back.

Because he had no future now.

* * *

 

If his breath could be taken away, it would have.

He forgot the ordeal with the voices almost immediately. Charles was used to happy surprises being the loud _boo!_ and screech of Raven; but the sea was as quiet as it was _astonishing_.

He had given up on being able to see this _vision_ with how the day had been going.

It was a scene of utter serenity, the blue below, and Charles wanted to see it up close, watch for hours, even be a part of it. He took a deep breath and angled his body down and kicking with his fins, diving beneath the surface.

The closer he got to the corals, the quieter the world in his head became. He couldn’t go too far before the pressure began to build, so Charles tread between the surface and the glittering life below him.

Fish of orange, blue and yellow swam in schools around and below him. His world was tinted turquoise as he devoured what he could see of the sea bed. He went back to the surface for air and dived again. There were some dips where the sea bed was further away, like the depth beyond a cliff darkened by depth, but Charles cared more for the lobsters he could see peeking out from a cluster of rocks. He went back to the surface for air and dived again. The rails of a ship that had separated from its body that probably lay in the Heritage Trail in the National Park (Charles hadn’t seen it yet, but there was a long summer left to do so). He went back to the surface for air and dived again. The absolute _city_ of corals made up, some winged, some like branches of a tree, all offering home to the life there.

The water was like a million silky hugs around him, caressing his hair. As he breathed out, the bubbles brushed against his cheeks like a kiss. He watched them flutter away to the surface.

Where Cain’s flailing wasn’t disturbing the water.

Where the yacht wasn’t hovering.

Where Raven was nowhere to be seen.

He looked around him, the water clear blue glass, although it was darkening quickly, but the only blue fins and yellow locks were that of the fish and Charles powered up to the surface.

The yacht was quite far from where he was, the current has been pushing or pulling him away unawares – the water at the surface was rippling, and when he looked down the sea was no longer comforting blue but churning grey.

Fear clawed at his chest as he kicked and dragged at the water. Surely Raven had stayed near the yacht.

“RAVEN!” He shouted, but the waves battered against his ears and flooded into his mouth, like a watery hand clapping over it to silence him. He sputtered and pushed on – if he lost Raven it’d be his fault, his distraction, his thoughtlessness, his _little sister_ – until he could hear a rumble of bellows and a shrill interpretation of his name.

“CHARLES! CHARLES WHERE ARE YOU!”

“RAVEN! HERE, I’M HERE! MOTHER! KURT! HERE! _RAVEN!_ ”

But they couldn’t see him, or hear him, and his chest hurt, and his arms hurt and his fingers could no longer hold together, tired, separated to let the water through, his fins slapping the surface of the water uselessly.

And then a wave crested over him and slammed him under the surface.

He could hear the storm in the rolling of the current, its roar stuttering through the water more monstrously than it did in the air. It cruelly let its hold on him go, and Charles could breathe again. He could hear Raven’s screams now and threw himself at it with everything he had –

 _RAVEN!_ He screamed, but the sea had let him have his momentary freedom, and swallowed him back down. The roar of the storm sounded like laughter now, rumbling heinously at his struggle. His face mask was no longer straight on his face and the salt burned his eyes and nose.

The water pushed at him and pulled at him and Charles wondered if he was going to die –

_HELP!_

He didn’t want to die, Raven would be alone, she’d hate the sea, she wouldn’t have any one to read to her or defend her from Cain. He didn’t want to die, what would Mother do having lost both her Xavier’s if the first time she’d ran away and disappeared into a big house and a small bottle? He didn’t want to die, he wanted to grow up, he wanted to learn, he wanted to read, he wanted to know what coffee tasted like, he wanted to survive – _live_.

_HELP ME!_

He couldn’t hear and he couldn’t see, and Charles’ insides felt they were being torn apart, like his soul was ripping at his body, needing to breathe and needing to cry because all he’d wanted to do was see the sea and _breathe_ and now he couldn’t do either and he would die in this restless darkness. He wanted freedom and silence and he'd be getting them both against his will.

_HELP ME PLEASE!_

He tried to find the surface, tried to kick down and pull up, or push down and kick up, but directions were nothing when his world was endlessly changing when everything kept moving. His head felt heavier, and Charles knew he was going deeper, his head aching with the pressure and he turned to move in the opposite direction.

But his arms felt like they were weightless against the heavy water and his legs wouldn’t work with his fins being pulled in another direction. His vision darkened beyond the storm’s greyness and his head began to buzz.

And Charles fell away.

* * *

 

In his dream there was something pressed against his lips.

Something tickled against his cheek and neck – watery kisses, light touches, bubbles– and then was pulled down to his lips. It exploded in his mouth and the air ran into his lungs. Muddled air. His lungs felt heavy.

In his dream, the water rushed through his hair, hurriedly, flattening it, its ends caressing his face. His body was being pulled along, cutting through the water and he wasn’t alone.

In his dream, there were arms securely around him, and he was chest to chest and the other was _cold_.

His dream wavered as he fell to his arms and knees on the sand, his head reeled and gravity seemed to take effect as he collapsed and held still.

The bubble feeling was against his lips again and it inhaled and suddenly he felt water rushing out his lungs and then they were empty and god he was gonna die heneededto-

He breathed in air and he woke up _alive_.

Charles coughed and dry heaved and his body had nothinf left to offer up. It felt heavy compared to his head which felt like a balloon, it's string tied to a rock. But all of a sudden he was laughing, uncontrollably, happily, stressfully.

Because he was _alive_.

Tears burned behind his lids and when he opened his eyes, his face was inches from the tide lapping at the sand which explained the hiss near his head, the water seemed calmer now, but foamy from the storm. Half his body was still submerged in water, curled into himself as he was and Charles immediately scrambled away. Because that water tried to kill him (but he wasn't dead, because -)

Which was when he came face to face with:

“Woah.”

If Charles didn’t believe in fairy tales, he did at this moment, and though his mind was white noise from panic, some part of it was now stuttering with shock.

(And he didn’t. Believe in fairy tales that is.

They were enjoyable, and Charles often fancied himself the wizard or knight and Raven would always chime in, sometimes the princess but sometimes the warrior. Cain their dragon. Kurt the warlord.

But _mermaids_?

Raven had once asked him about them, because he was the highest authority on sea-life. And Charles already had the answer ready, ‘ _no Raven, mermaids are folktales, people mistook them for manatees, it says so right here’_. But her eyes were wide and hopeful, and he couldn’t do that to her, not when she held her head to one side and bit her lip in the way she did when she expected bad news.

“Well, keep an eye out when we next go swimming okay?”)

He – if the bare chest was anything to go by – was young, lean and _so pale_. There were distinct scars across his neck that Charles realised were _gills_ , but they seemed to be closing up. Blue veins were visible through his skin, branching patterns that were almost like tattoos that faded in places. And below his hips – _a tail_. The water rippled over it, but it looked powerful, long and wide, its fins, farthest from Charles, looked _massive_ , and less flimsy than the ones in Raven’s storybooks.

Charles snapped his eyes up back to his face.

His eyes were large and mostly black, his nose flatter and mouth wider – less human than the tales painted them. But before his eyes, the mer seemed to be changing, eyes becoming smaller, nose more distinguished and _– oh_ – the dark shapes over his eyes and his head seemed to unfurl into hair.

The mer was breathing hard, and it seemed the more he breathed, the more the gaps in his neck shut and the more human his eyes became (white began to bleed into the black, chasing it away, and as the black receded, grey irises appeared) – and those eyes were not kind.

The eyes look back at him, before they skittered down his legs, confused. There was a prodding at his fins (gaps began to form between his fingers where the thin skin before seemed to be dripping away) before the grey eyes turned back to his face, furious.

“ _Human_.” It gasped or didn’t – it didn’t, what came out his throat were clicks, but Charles heard it all the same. It rattled in his head, echoing a burst of disgust and disbelief that he’d _saved a human, how could I have mistaken, the storm was messing with my_ – _but an earthwalker couldn’t have called out like Emma -_

Charles noticed at that moment that his mouth wasn’t moving, instead it was bared, snarling, _so many teeth_ and so _sharp_ though they too were flattening. He wasn’t speaking.

Then, how –

_‘How did you do it, earthwalker? How did you harness power like Emma’s?’_

“What? What power? I don’t –”

 _‘Mindspeak, how do you mindspeak? Are you one of the Banished? Were you stranded or taken by the Humans?’_ An image shot through Charles’ mind, of mer taken or kidnapped, of those who left to embrace the Earth over the Sea, shedding their tails, the image tainted with horror that Charles was one of them, that Erik had consorted with a _Banished, what will Shaw do if –_

“I-I’m not a merman!”

The mer’s eyes narrowed, face scrunching up with it in his confusion, _‘A Human mindspeaker? There is no way.’_

They stared at each other, dread spreading between them like a growing ball bouncing back and forth through some invisible court, and Charles only caught on when he realised the pit in his stomach felt heavier, _because it wasn’t just his_.

He could hear his thoughts. Feel his feelings.

 _Mindspeaker_ , the mer called him. _Telepathy_ , his own mind translated.

‘ _You are an impossibility_.’ The mer whispered (or didn’t, he didn’t _oh god)_.

Charles’ legs came to life and he pushed himself up, splashing water all over the _real_ impossibility and ran.

Because now there were voices in the sea too.


End file.
